


Retrace, Remake

by Katastrophe94



Series: Toon Town [2]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Drama, Gen, Just read, Lots of drama to occur, Manipulation, Now continuing as it's own spin-off, Toon Henry AU, also kind of character death?, at least my take of one, but also not?, technically a stand-alone from the rest of the toon town series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-17 13:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11276193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katastrophe94/pseuds/Katastrophe94
Summary: When an artist is dissatisfied with their work, its customary to erase the parts that offend you and replace them with something better. Joey is no exception.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another Toon Town thingy, this time featuring my take on what a bad ending might look like here! A 'what-if' Boris wasn't able to rescue Henry! :D
> 
> Yo know, the reason they call me Katastrophe is because I can't keep my hands away from the most catastrophic of ideas! :D
> 
> Enjoy!

_Scritch scritch scritch._

Joey Drew filled out the last sketch on the fresh page before him, the music of the radio the only sound beside that of his favorite pen. He worked tirelessly, every line given the most diligent of care, every circle and square and rune drawn to perfection. With what he hoped to accomplish now, it required nothing less.

Nothing about his machine ever did.

Leaning back against the leather seat, his old chair creaking on its legs, he held the page up and examined it closely, eyes roving for any mistakes, any errors, any _flaws_. Seconds bled away into minutes as he looked, the clock a-tick-tocking away, but one could never be too careful with this sort of thing.

When at last he’s certain everything is as close to perfect as he could come, Joey nodded and rose from his seat, gathering the loose papers on the desk into a neat pile and lifting it into the crook of his arm.

Once done, he glanced at the mechanical clock that rested on his desk. It had been a gift from a long time ago, and it had kept the time faithfully even after all these years. Granted, it wasn’t as if time mattered for much in this place, but its reliability was something he had come to appreciate.

It was more than he could say for some . . .

 _Eleven forty_ the clock read, and Joey nodded again. He still had ample time. Everything was already prepared, true-he’d grown very good and setting the scenes up well before the curtains rose-but he liked to not be rushed, especially for something so . . . delicately untested.

A light bang made him look up, to the closet doors beside the bookshelves. You couldn’t see them where you entered through the main door, as far back as they were, and mostly was used for more miscellaneous storage. Now, however, it currently housed a troublesome guest.

With a shake of his head, Joey squared his shoulders and walked to the door. Shifting his hand through his left pocket for a moment, he slid the key free and held it out to the door. It was old, worn, a little on the ornate side, but it slid easily into place like it was brand new, and he unlocked it in one fluid motion. With a light tug of his hand, the door swung open and revealed what was inside.

A glare was the first thing he received, unsurprisingly. Even tied down, half-melted and completely at his mercy, Henry continued to be defiant. Joey had once liked that stubbornness. Now, it only irked him.

“Comfortable, Henry?” he asked, knowing very well the other man was the furthest he could be from comfortable.

Henry growled in response, unable to say anything around the gag in his mouth, but Joey believed he understood the message. Henry still thought he was the villain in this scenario. Unfathomable. Joey had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into this, all for the sake of remaking this cold, cruel, careless world just a little better. That his former friend could believe what he did, well, it was preposterous.

But there was no longer any room for them to reach an understanding now, that was clear. And he couldn’t very well leave Henry to his own devices anymore, either. Had Joey not pushed Boris out of the room when he did, he may have turned the wolf’s ear, a disaster just barely avoided. And who knows what other poison he’s been filling his toons heads with. As it stood, he had a lot to work on in that field now because of it.

And yet . . . there may be a way to salvage this, _if_ his plan worked.

With a disconsolate sigh, Joey sidled past the man, papers still tucked beneath his arm, “You know Henry, I did not want it to come to this, truly. This could have been something we built together.”

Henry keeps glaring, and he was incensed enough that steam was puffing through his nose with every breath.

Joey only rolled his eyes, “Oh, quit with that. You brought this on yourself. You refused to listen to me, and you refused to make amends when I graciously offered you the chance!”

 Henry’s eyes only narrowed in reply, a silent impudence he’d come to expect by now. He feels the urge to get angry again, to strike that insolence off the other man’s face, but he quelled it quickly with a deep, cleansing breath. His shoulders sagged on the release, and he stared ahead to the back of closet, “You don’t deserve any more clemency after this. And yet . . . I am an old man, and prone to sentimentalities.”

Without pause, he reached up and grabbed the dangling cord beside his head, the kind one would use for a light switch. He pulled down, and held the cord tight for five seconds exactly until a small _click_ echoed around the small space. There’s a beat of silence, and then slowly, the back wall before him slid open. Beyond lay a darkly lit hallway, a narrow decline that dipped down into the lower levels of his studio, well away from prying eyes. Joey stared, feeling the paper under his arm weigh heavy. Once he crossed this threshold today, there would be no going back.

But commitment was required for this line of work, and he was nothing if not committed.

Joey glanced back at Henry, noting the way the man’s eyes had grown wide with surprise. True, once this studio had been pretty clear-cut in its design, no secret spaces to hide away in. But that was then, and this was now, “Oh please. This is a toon world, Henry, I can shape it however I please.”

Quickly, he closed the closet door proper and locked it tight. If any of his toons returned, they’d only find an empty office, and they would know better than to look for him.

Once done, Joey turned and, without a word of warning, grabbed the uppermost coils of Henry’s binds and began to drag him to the narrow tunnel. He heard the man groan around the gag, possibly curse, and put in a token resistance against his captor, one Joey knew to be futile. The path was long, and every twenty feet would curve in a sharp one-eighty, going deeper into the studio. As Joey walked, he noticed Henry’s breaths growing sharper, more pained. Understandable, but there was no easier way to their destination. Regardless, Henry had left any option for mercy behind them, and while it may be base and unproductive and just a little petty, Joey is still _angry_ at the man. In his eyes, it was the least his former friend deserved for having the _gall_ to turn on him again.

It’s not until he can hear a low, deep thrumming, one he feels vibrates through the floor, that Joey knows they’re close. It’s not long after, either, before they come to another door. It looks no different from any other in this studio, wood paneling and a small window slotted into it at eye-level . . . but there’s a reason its hidden.

Slowly, he turned the knob and swung it open.

Beyond lay a basic room, small, square, and easily considered bland by most people’s standards. What sets it apart is the fact that every wall is crammed with bookshelves lined with thick, heavy tomes, there shiny black bindings emblazoned with archaic language and occult titles. Each was one he had collected personally, and each was one well-read. There’s a desk across from where he stood, the place where he had spent countless hours reading, working, _perfecting_ . . . crammed with papers and pens and even more books and a fancy lever poised beside the chair, it’s a welcome sight even now, a reminder of how far his work had come. There have been some changes, though. Most noticeably, the flat plastic tarp that’s been draped out in the center of the room, each corner rigidly pinned down by hard, heavy nails, and the trio of buckets innocuously tucked in the corner.

The thrumming is noticeably louder now, a noise that beats in time to a heart, and Joey strides confidently to room’s center, dragging a freshly struggling Henry along with him. Perhaps the other man knows an ominous set-up when he sees one, or simple animal instinct is warning him away . . . but it mattered not.

Strength not having waned even slightly during his walk, Joey easily dragged the struggling soldier onto the tarp, where he left him. Henry struggled to sit up, but with his lower half as out of sorts as it is and his arms tied behind his back, he only manages to prop himself on his side and glare futilely from the ground.

Joey crouched down to his level, fingers laced together and eyes frosty as he returned Henry’s stare. A grim silence fell between the pair, the only sound the thrumming below their feet.

Then, Joey reached out and snatched the gag from his friend’s mouth.

Henry sputters for a moment, obviously not expecting the sudden removal. But it’s not very long before he puts his newfound freedom to use, “Joey, _what the hell?!_ ”

Joey only shrugged in response, rising to his feet, “Safety precaution. I’d rather not have any unnecessary ink in the mix.”

Henry gave him a clueless look, “ _What?_ What the hell does that mean?! What the hell is this place?! Just what are you scheming now, Joey!?”

A twinge of anger had him narrowing his eyes. ‘Scheming’ was synonymous with ‘planning’, Joey knew, but their connotations were quite different. The former being much more negative . . . much more villainous. And that made him scowl, “I could tell you, but it would be wasted, I think. You have done nothing but disparage every other idea I’ve had!”

“I wonder why,” Henry spat, wriggling in his binds again, “Look at all this, Joey! What about any of this looks like good ideas?”

“I had to peruse each of my options carefully,” he replied, frowning as he gestured to the myriad of bookshelves around him, “To minimize any damages.”

“Minimize damages?” Henry looks like he can scarcely believe him, “Is that what you call sacrificing hundreds of people for your world?!”

“It’s not a choice I make out of enjoyment, Henry!” he snapped. How could he? If he had the choice, he’d happily perform his miracles with no collateral whatsoever! But power like this did not come without consequences, he knew that now better than anyone. But he would be damned before he let that stop him now, because what could be achieved beyond that . . .

It could be utopia. And if only a handful of lives was the sacrifice required for it, then so be it.

“But it’s one you’re making anyway!” Henry accused, seething, “Damn it, _listen_ to yourself! How can you not understand that this is wrong?!”

Joey rolled his eyes, “It would be even more wrong to not use this power I have created! Irresponsible, _reprehensible_ , even!”

“What’s ‘reprehensible’ is murdering hundreds of people just so you can play God!” Henry shouted.

“I don’t seek to play anything other than myself. A man who only wishes to do right by the world. And sometimes, to do the right thing, that requires sacrifice,” Joey’s eyes had gone cold, “I would have thought that, being a soldier on the frontlines, you would have understood better than anyone.”

Henry’s eyes darkened, and Joey could see his anger tip into very genuine rage, “Don’t you _dare_ claim you understand. You didn’t see what happened out there! You don’t know _anything_ about that!”

“Maybe I don’t,” Joey replied after a moment of simmering silence, “But by that same token, you cannot claim to understand me or my choices. Which is why we’re here now.”

“So what now?” Henry growled, “You gonna finally kill me? Get it over with and say I’m just another ‘sacrifice’ you had to make?!”

Joey did not respond. Instead, he shuffled the papers he had been diligently carrying out from under his arm and glanced through them until he found the one he was looking for. With a delicate tug, he pulled it loose and held it our where Henry could see it.

The other man stared, and while he’s still angry, he couldn’t quite stop the perplexed expression from flickering across his face, “What, is that supposed to be me?”

“In a sense,” Joey pulled it back, eyeing it himself. It was a picture of Henry, the toon version at least. Instead of a permanent glare and frown, he looks a little more easy-going, a little more relaxed, a little more like how he used to be, “It’s what I had hoped you would be when I invited you back. A shame that reality rarely ever lives up to our fantasies.” 

A smile crossed his face, “But that is the beauty of my machine, isn’t it? To _make_ those fantasies reality.”

Joey stowed the page back with the rest and moved to his desk, carefully setting them down in a neat, orderly pile. Once done, he walked back to Henry, ignoring the man’s wary stare as he did so. With a tug, he hoisted his former friend up by the ropes tying him down and reached behind his back, fingers curling around something smooth and firm.  He pulls it back out into view, the monochrome knife gleaming silver, and Henry starts in his grasp when he sees it. Without bothering to explain or soothe or even say one word, Joey flicked the knife forward and sliced down-clean though the ropes binding Henry’s arms.

With the sudden loss of support, the startled man dropped back to the floor as Joey stood back up, tossing the coils to the side and well out of the way. Henry struggled to get his arms under him, but even with that success, they both knew he would not get very far.

“Regardless of what you believe, I am not a villain, Henry,” Joey said, moving back to his desk, “And to answer your question, no, I don’t want to kill you. But it cannot go back to how it was, I see that now.”

Henry stared at him, teeth grit, “What then? Why all of this?”

“I could explain it all to you . . . but if this works, then, Henry, this conversation will be as if it never was,” Joey did not elaborate further. Instead, he reached behind himself until his palm curved against the varnished knob of the lever beside his chair, and pulled.

The trapdoor beneath the tarp opened, and Henry let out a startled shout as the ground beneath him suddenly vanished. He grunted as the tarp grew taut, held tight by the nails that secured them to the upper floor, and was left swaying inside the sack, helpless.

Once done, Joey closed his eyes and took one more deep breath to still his thoughts and his beating heart. No more going back.

Still, as he goes to stand before the hole where his old friend now lay trapped, he paused for just a moment and said, “. . . please know that I take no pleasure from any of this. But you have left me no choice, Henry.”

Henry, face pulled tight into a grimace as it is, only barely has time to glance up. Up, just as Joey took the bucket in his hands and poured the contents _down._ There’s a splash and a hot sizzle, like the sound oil makes when it hits a heated pan.

Then the screaming started.

Joey hums as he works, a little ditty he had heard from his radio, one that tunes his mind away from what he is doing, allowing only repetition to rule his movements, until all three buckets lay empty at his side. The sounds from the hole grow louder, more strident-more terrible, a tiny, tiny part of him whispers-but he taps his foot against the floor to the rhythm of his melody as he turns away and gathers the pages he had brought, checking them over one more time and humming, humming, humming away. There are no clocks down here, but Joey is familiar with the weight of time passing- _should it take this long?-_ and he waits and waits and waits.

He won’t admit that the breath he releases when the screams finally fade is one of relief, nor that the sweat on his brow is from anything other than the heat as he turns and gathers the rest of his tools. He works slowly, carefully, as he pulls out every nail and untethers the tarp from its place, carrying each corner until every side is free and clenched firmly in his hands. With caution on every breath, he pulls the sack up and ties the top off, feeling the contents within slosh as he carefully hoists it over his shoulder, trying not to feel nauseous as he does so. Gathering his pages, he twists the top half of the lever and watched as a hole opened up in the ceiling, dropping a step ladder straight through the one in the floor to the level below his feet. It’s just like the one that led to the attic of his childhood home, a relic of simple, bygone days.

He gets down simply enough, and below . . . below he stopped just to take in the sight.

His Machine works as diligently as he does, keeping this place running, working, _alive_. Its vibrancy thrums beneath his feet, filling him to his core, and Joey doesn’t think he could ever be prouder of anything in the world.

But he has work to do.

The seal is already in place beneath the Machine’s spout, all that’s left is to put the rest of the pieces in place and turn it on. First, he starts with the pages, sliding them into the slot designed for such things, one after the other. The Machine accepts them all. Then, he takes the sack over his shoulder and undoes the knot, before tipping the contents into the main valve, and he can hear the cogs begin to whine in anticipation.

Joey stepped back, gave one last, admiring look to the creation that had made so many wonderful things possible. He is confident that it will do so again. So, pausing with his hand on the knob that will start the process, he nods and says, “May this be the start of something better.”

He pushed it up, and slowly, methodically, the Machine started to churn.

____

There’s a dull buzzing in his ears as he woke from a groggy sleep, and Henry swatted at his face in compulsory habit to chase the irritating little insect away. He effectively ruins any chance he had of going back when he accidentally smacks himself instead, and after a long moment, he sighed.  With a groan, he sat up and yawned, running a hand through his hair to wipe away the last vestiges of slumber, nails lightly scratching at his scalp.

“Ah, you’re awake at last!”

Henry started straight and snapped his head to his right, startled when he found his old companion Joey Drew seated next to him, a book in his hand and a warm smile on his face.

“J-Joey?” Henry starts, confused, “What are you doing here?”

It occurred to Henry then that he doesn’t actually _know_ where ‘here’ is. He thinks back to before, tried to remember where exactly he was, what he had been doing . . . but all that comes up is a dark and scary blank.

“I-I . . . what-?”

That’s when Joey softly chimes in, “You’re in the studio Henry. You came after you got my letter, remember?”

And just like, the memory slots itself into place, crisp and clear, and Henry relaxed. Rubbing his head almost abashedly, he said, “Yeah . . . yeah, I did. Um, what happened? I mean, I walked into the studio, and-?”

“You and I met, and we had a good, long conversation about the past! What you did after the war, my time and work here, the whole kit and caboodle,” Joey supplied helpfully, casually turning to the next page of his novel, “I even got to show you my Machine.”

Henry nodded slowly, the dark spaces in his head shrinking just a little more, “Right . . . the Machine . . .”

As the memory resurfaces, Henry can’t stop a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head as he brings his arm down to eye level. Of course, _that_ was why he and Joey looked like this, how could he forget?

“I can’t believe you figured out how to turn things into toons!” he said, glancing back at Joey with a smile on his face, “You crazy coot!”

The other man laughs slightly, before lightly tapping the side of his head, “I’ll accept that title! Its takes just a pinch in order to dream up an invention like this! But regardless . . .” his face softened, “I am certainly glad you decided to stay and help me achieve my goal, Henry.”

Henry paused, and for one strange, vertigo-inducing moment, he wanted to say, ‘no, that’s not right.’ Its sitting there in the back of his throat, bubbling up and dying to be let out, dancing on the tip of his tongue. But then he blinked, and the feeling passed as another memory filled in the gaps.

“Right, I . . . did,” Henry said, shaking his head to rid himself of the feeling of cobwebs covering his brain, “Sorry . . . still feels like I’m dreamin’ . . .”

“Oh, it’s no dream, I can assure you of that,” Joey said, gently closing his book. He set it to the side and rose to his feet, gingerly brushing down the lapels of his shirt, “Although, I may have to ask Bendy to ease up on his pranks. That bucket took you into dreamland for quite some time.”

“Bendy . . .?” another weird sensation flitters about under his skin, urging him to be wary of that name. But that was a silly thought. He knows Bendy. He’d helped draw him, so long ago . . .

Joey’s face has split into a grin, “Yes! And Boris, and dear Alice! They’re all alive here, thanks to my machine! I told you, remember?”

Yes . . . yes, Joey _had_ told him that too . . . he remembered. Shaking his head, Henry runs his hands over his arms, brushing the flittering feeling away.

“You haven’t gotten to meet them properly yet, and I’m sure you’re just dying to see!” Joey said, grinning still, “I will warn you though, Bendy may be less than accommodating! He didn’t take your departure well.”

“Ah . . .” Henry nodded, “Guess there’s no getting around that, is there?”

“No. But once he sees you’re on our side, I’m certain he’ll come around!” Joey reassured him, “You’ve promised to stay this time, after all!”

Henry gave him a grateful smile, “Well, here’s hoping.”

“Indeed,” smiling still, Joey held out a hand to him, “Now, what do you say we go meet and greet, hm? After that, I can show you around, perhaps even bandy ideas with you like we used too?”

Henry glanced at the extended hand, and for just a second, a sound of warning rings inside like a worn and broken bell. It’s the same kind of instinct that kept him alive on the battlefield, warned him of danger, of treachery. But instead of heeding it, he smothered it quickly. This was Joey. This was his friend. What was there to fear?

 _God, you have gotten paranoid, old man,_ he told himself. It was just the new environment, playing on his old suspicion. He’d get used to it soon, he was sure.

He promised he’d stay this time, didn’t he?

“Right. That sounds good,” he said, taking the hand offered to him in a firm shake.

Joey’s still smiling, and in the dim glow of the old overhead lights, Henry failed to notice the way it seemed just a little sharper than a smile should.

“It’s good to have you back, old friend.”


	2. Resetting Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, uh, so, by popular demand (and my own inability to stay away from it), I've decided to continue this awful thing I made. With Squiggly's permission of course!
> 
> So, uh . . . here you go! The aftermath of my bad ending!
> 
> Enjoy?

Boris didn’t think it was possibly to feel so _guilty_ by simply watching someone work.

Henry hadn’t noticed him yet, standing as he is half-hidden behind the corner, and with the man’s back hunched and nose practically on the desk as it is, working on whatever task Joey had asked of him, he wouldn’t have seen the wolf anyway. It’s fine. It’s better that way, because Boris doesn’t think he could handle talking to him right now.

He watched as Henry leaned back, scratching the bottom end of his pen against his temple as he pursed his lips in thought, foot tapping against the ground in a compulsory rhythm that Boris knew for a fact any toon would do . . . but not necessarily Henry. A few seconds passed that way, until the animator snapped his fingers and, with a pleased twirl of his pen, set back to work.

Once, a scene like this would have delighted Boris. Everyone getting along. Everyone working together. It was all he had ever wanted.

But it’s wrong. There is something so _wrong_ here, despite what Joey had said, because the Henry _he_ knew wouldn’t be doing this. _Especially_ not after what had happened inside Joey’s office that fateful day.

He still remembered it. He remembered it so _vividly,_ to the point where he would wake up convinced he could smell the strong, acholic tang of whatever Joey had used in the room with him . . . but Henry didn’t. He just _didn’t_. He didn’t remember running through the halls of the studio, he didn’t remember his first discovery of hammer space, he didn’t remember escaping any of Bendy’s pranks.

He didn’t even really remember who _they_ were, either . . .

Joey had had a story for that; ‘An unfortunate accident with a bucket, you see, knocked some of his memories around and out. But it knocked a little sense into him, too! He’s agreed to work with us!’

They’d all been skeptical. And even when Boris had confronted him on the issue of their argument, Joey had simply waved him off, saying, ‘A lapse of judgement on my part, I know, Boris. I’m sorry you had to see that. But it all worked out! A quick fix with some ink and Henry was right as rain, and now he even wants to work with us! Surely you can’t complain about that, my dear wolf?’

And that much had been true. Henry _did_ want to work them. But there had been something . . . unsettling about it. Because Boris _knew_ who Henry had been when he’d first arrived, and the one who was easily bantering with Joey, who was comfortable enough with his toon form, who was forgiving of Bendy’s pranks and prods . . . that wasn’t it. And the change is something more than just an errant bucket could cause, no matter _what_ Joey claimed.

Which just meant . . . that his creator was lying. To him, to Henry, to _all_ of them.

And it just begged the question, that if he’s lying . . . then what _really_ happened to Henry?

Boris would be lying himself if he said the answer didn’t terrify him. And he can’t ask Henry, because the toon doubted he knew. But even if the memory is locked away in the older man’s head somewhere, he doesn’t know what the backlash of _un_ locking it could be. Joey had been very, _very_ insistent that they not press the animator too hard, to not rock the boat, and to let any healing that needed to occur to happen naturally. Because, in his own words, to press too hard too quickly could lead to ‘dire consequences’.

The kind of ‘dire consequences’ that led to results like Sammy.

And no matter how different this Henry is, Boris does _not_ want that fate for him, not if he could help it.

The man at the other end of the hall suddenly rose to his feet, and Boris backpedaled, flattening himself against the wall till he’s nearly paper thin. Henry rushed by moments later with a stack of papers under his arm, not even noticing the toon mere inches from him, until he vanished down another hall, most likely to go find Joey.

After a few breathless moments of waiting until he was sure the coast was clear, Boris slowly peeled himself off, slumping forward into a forlorn hunch once he’s fully back into his proper shape. His head is bowed and his ears are down, feeling again that gloomy sense of being trapped, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to fix what went wrong. Not for the first time, he thought back to the moment where he and Henry had last truly been together, on the floor of Joey’s office. In that moment, Boris knew he could have saved him. He could have done _something_ to stop what had happened. Instead, he’d let Joey push him out the door and slam it shut behind him. He’d abandoned Henry to whatever fate his creator had meted out. He’d allowed all of this to happen, because he had simply been too scared to stand up to Joey’s fury. So now here they were, one ignorant and the other helpless, stuck in a melting pot that seemed so close to boiling over into something dangerous and with no way to stop it.

And Boris knew that the guilt of his inaction would haunt him forever.

-

Alice walked listlessly through the seemingly endless corridors, eyes on the floor and with no true destination in mind.

How long had it been now? A week? Two? It all had just . . . blurred together since this Henry’s arrival, it seemed.

 _This_ Henry, she dubbed. Because he wasn’t the _old_ Henry, the Henry she knew. His change in behavior, his comfort with this world, his newfound outlook . . . too many subtle differences that painted a huge, checkered sign that signaled ‘wrong’. And the circumstances surrounding his appearance troubled her greatly. Boris’ account of what had happened in Joey’s office, added on with Joey’s vague explanation of what had occurred and his brushing away of their concerns, only worsened her fears.

She didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence of foul play was too tangible to ignore. The dark implication being that Joey had . . . had done something _horrific_ to Henry, to the person he had claimed was once his best friend.

It didn’t help that Alice didn’t know what to _do_ about their situation, either. On one hand, she wanted to confront their creator headfirst, to make him confess the truth and stop lying to them like she was sure he was doing. But on the other . . . she was scared to try. Because if Joey really _had_ done something to Henry, could do it and still smile so flippantly like he did . . . who’s to say he wouldn’t do something to them if they decided to fight back, too?

It’s such a scary, scary thought, to think that a man she had believed loved them and cared for them and wanted to make them great again could possibly hold a much darker seed of evil in his heart. And it’s so cruel, because Henry had warned them, _continuously_ warned them, that maybe their creator hadn’t been all he seemed, and none of them had listened, and now it might be too late.

Too late to save Henry, too late to stop Joey and his schemes, and too late to remove the haunted look in Boris’ eyes.

A sigh left her lips, heavy with regrets she can’t get rid of, until a soft _plink_ on her halo drew her eyes up.

Her face fell even more when she spied the rain cloud over her head, the droplets falling faster as she watched. ‘Temperature’ isn’t really something the toons ever worry about, but the rain feels . . . cold. Somber. Sad.

Alice sighed again, and walked along her way, head bowed as she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the chill. Slowly, without bothering to look, she turned the corner.

Only to suddenly be knocked flat on her back as something solid and firm collided with her.

It knocks the cloud clean way too, and for a moment, all she’s seeing are the birds fluttering around her head, tweeting tunefully into her ears. They vanish with a brisk shake of her head, bringing a hand up to rub at her scalp as she blinked her eyes open to see what she had run into.

Her shoulders tense tight when she saw Henry.

There are papers scattered around him, and he’s nursing a bump on his head, but as soon as he saw her, his expression dropped into surprise, “Oh, crap! Sorry, Alice! Wasn’t watching where I was going . . .”

He stood up quickly and hurriedly held out a hand out to her, a gesture that wouldn’t have been out of place on the old Henry. She glanced at it, then to the man, then back to the hand, before slowly, gingerly accepting it. With one hoist, she’s back on her feet, and Alice quietly took her hand back, “Thank you.”

Henry dusted himself off, looking a little sheepish, “You’re welcome. Still, sorry for knocking you down like that. I really should have been paying attention to what I was doing.”

“Its . . . alright,” is her reply, looking away. Even so, she doesn’t miss the slight crease that appeared in Henry’s brow, the tiny, tiny hint that her reticent reaction had hurt. It’s not the first time. He’s tried talking to them all before, but each of them . . . each of them had kept him at a distance, refusing eye contact, pushing him out, quickly shutting conversation down, because everyone, even _Bendy_ , knew something was off. She doesn’t mean to be cruel, or make him feel unwelcome, heavens no, but . . . but she’s afraid that if she tried to interact with him, _really_ tried . . . then the guilt might overwhelm her.

To distract herself, Alice glanced at the papers scattered across the floor, noticing the rough drafts on every piece even as Henry stooped to collect them all again in lieu of conversation.

“What . . . are you doing?” Alice asked, curiosity niggling at her despite her desire to leave.

“Getting these sketches to Joey,” Henry replied, tucking them back into a neat pile. He looked at her, and Alice tried not to feel guilty at the pleased expression on his face, “Just got done with ‘em.”

A soft brush of suspicion rose up inside her, and Alice laced her fingers together, glancing at the pages again, “What for?”

At that, Henry scratched his head, looking at the pages himself, “Believe me, I asked. But he was determined to keep it a secret. Said he wanted it to be a surprise.”

Her suspicion grew, and alongside it, an unsettling disquiet, “And that . . . doesn’t bother you?”

Henry stared at her, and it looked like the thought had never even crossed his mind, “Uh, well . . . not especially? I mean, Joey can be eccentric with his work, sometimes to the point of lunacy, but he always means well.”

And that right there is what’s wrong, because _her_ Henry would never have dismissed this so easily. _He_ would have been wary, been cautious, been at least a little _suspicious_ , regardless of his former ties to her creator.

But this one isn’t, and the sense of responsibility for that change, the feeling that it’s partly her fault, percolates all throughout her body deep into her very core.

This Henry must see the upset on her face, because he asked, “Hey, are you okay? You’re looking a little blue there.”

He’s concerned. Like the old Henry would be. And it suddenly hurts to look at him, because he’s completely ignorant of everything that’s going on, of what had happened to him, of how she and Boris had let him down when he needed them the most, and it _hurt_ and she can’t stand there another minute!

Without explanation, Alice ducked her head away from the hand that had been reaching out to console her and shot down the hall, leaving Henry behind her. She had a hand over her mouth, fighting back tears that stubbornly refused to stop, until she’s sure she’s alone.

Once she is, she allowed her back to thump against the hardwood wall behind her, sliding to the floor with a soft sniffle. There is so much that’s gone wrong. _So_ much, and it’s her fault.

And Alice doesn’t know how to fix it.

-

_This’ll get that old man to snap out of it, for sure!_

Of this, Bendy was positive. He’d set everything up so carefully, a fool-proof way of ensuring he got the best possible reaction out of the old geezer and make him remember why he was here. Henry didn’t get to just ‘forget’ what he’d done, oooooh no. Not on his watch!

And so what if Joey said to go easy on him? In Bendy’s opinion, a good push was just the thing the guy needed! _Or_ , even better, a good boot to the noggin’!

It would serve him right for _forgetting_ about them again . . .

Even thinking about it made him _so_ mad. Who cared if it was an accident or not, Henry had _no right_ to go and forget about them again! Actin’ like they were pals, like he’d done nothin’ wrong, it was so _infuriating!_ Especially not after everything! So, besides getting the idiot’s head straight, this’ll be a good ol’ bit of payback for havin’ the audacity to muck things up!

Joey couldn’t be mad at him if he fixed things, right?

Besides, once the old man had his memory back, he could sort out that weird story Boris had shared with them and put his canine pal at ease. Joey could be a kook sometimes, but . . . _meltin’_ someone, that was just . . . well, Boris had probably mistaken a gag for somethin’ it wasn’t at the time. The wolf had always been a little on the jumpy side.

It would hopefully stop Alice’s accusations that Joey was lyin’ to them, too. How stupid . . . that angel was prone to trusting people she shouldn’t, like Henry, but this turn-around on Joey? Even he couldn’t have seen that coming. Joey was their creator, he’d come back for them when no one else had, how could she think he was lyin’ to them? _Why_ would Joey lie?

So what if he didn’t remember setting up a bucket prank recently, or that Henry and Joey had had an argument before the animator lost his memory, or the strange account of what Boris had seen . . . Joey wouldn’t lie to them. He wouldn’t.

He _wouldn’t_.

Bendy didn’t get to ponder on it anymore, though, because that was when he heard footsteps coming from further up the hall. Quickly, Bendy ducked out of sight, just enough to stay hidden but also to see who came around the corner.

Lo’ and behold, who should appear but precisely the person he wanted to see. Henry was unusually distracted too, eyes on the papers in his hands instead of the road ahead of him, which suited bendy juuuust fine.

With a snicker, the toon reached behind his back and pulled out a banana, making quick work of the fruit within and leaving just the peel behind. Leaving back against the wall with a cocky grin, the demon then casually tossed the peel out into the center of the hallway.

Henry didn’t even see it, and Bendy’s grin grew wider. With the flow only a master could accomplish, Bendy pulled out the last piece of his plan; a tasty-looking pie.

Still grinning, Bendy stepped out from around his corner, took aim, and lobbed the pastry with all his might. And his aim is delightfully true, the pie slamming directly into Henry’s head and blinding the animator with sweet, sticky goo. There’s a slightly muffled cry of alarm, but it’s too late to turn course for the man, because it’s then he steps on the banana peel Bendy had thrown out. Henry let out a startled shout when his balance was suddenly swept away, propelled forward across the hall as the gag ordained, and there’s a tremendous clatter and crash as the bowling pins Bendy had so lovingly set out were scattered to the fore winds, papers flying everywhere.

Before Henry even has a chance to recover his bearings and chase the stars he’s seein’ away, Bendy casually sauntered up and held out the flower he had in his hand, grinning smugly as he gave it a slight squeeze. Water squirted from its core and hit Henry square in the face, the goop from the pie sliding away as the water thoroughly doused the man.

Once the last of it drained away, Bendy stood back with his hands on his hips, grinning and awaiting the inevitable blow-out when the old man realized it was him.

Henry blinked, wiping away the water from his eyes as he looked at the toon in front of him, blinking. But then, to Bendy’s utter confusion, instead of yelling and yacking and chasing after him like he expected, the old man only sighed and rubbed the back of his head, “Alright. Ya got me.”

Bendy stared at him in surprise, grin dropping, “W-wha-?”

“Did you use a pie?” Henry asked him, swiping some of the leftover goo off and examining it closely, eyebrow raised. Then, he gave the demon a small smile, “Got a soft spot for the old classics, huh?”

When Bendy didn’t respond, the animator sighed and stood up, shaking the leftovers off of himself. Which he shouldn’t have been able to do, because Henry was way too much of a stick-in-the-mud to really use toon logic like them, and he shouldn’t have been okay with this, he was supposed to be _angry!_ He was supposed to be _upset!_ He was supposed to chase him like he did when he’d first shown up here, and it’s not okay, because he didn’t remember and he was _ruinin’ the gag!_

“That’s-,” Bendy’s face morphed into a scowl, and he threw his arms out, shouting, “ _That’s not how this is supposed to go!_ ”

Henry’s startled and clueless expression only made him angrier, and he thrust a finger into the old man’s chest, “You’re supposed to get mad at me! You’re supposed to chase me around yellin’ about how you’re gonna get me back! You ain’t supposed to just shrug it off and pat me on the back, like you’re my pal or somethin’, _cause you’re not!_ So why do you keep _actin’_ like it!?”

He’s panting when he’s done, irate and irritated and sick of Henry playin’ this weird game of his. But the old man only stared at him, rubbing the back of his head with that same perplexed look on his face, “Um . . . sorry? I was in a hurry, didn’t know that was the angle you were spinning-,”

“ _There is no angle!_ ” Bendy’s yell cut the man off, “That’s just what you’re supposed to _do_ , because that’s what you _did_ when ya first got here! I don’t care what Joey says about it, quit pullin’ our legs and start actin’ like the grumpy old man _I know you are!!_ ”

There are no mirrors here, but the look Henry gave him then, as well as his wary step back, made Bendy freeze. It’s not unlike the look Boris gave him once, and there’s a flicker of uncertainty inside him, a wiggling dread that makes him swallow in trepidation. Quickly, he turned on his heel to face the opposite direction, and while his anger is still simmering below the surface, it’s no longer bubbling, “Tch, whatever.”

 He stalks away, mood significantly darker than it had been before, ignoring the page he kicked up in his haste to get away from here and this annoying old man. With a growl, he snapped over his shoulder, “Get back to me when you decide drop this . . . _charade!_ ”

He doesn’t look back after that, doesn’t bother to see what Henry’s reaction is, because it wouldn’t be the right one, anyway. Nothing about him is ‘right’ anymore.

He can almost hear Alice in his ears, voicing her doubts, her suspicions, her fears, and he wanted to snap at her even though she wasn’t there, because there’s no _way_ she can be right. No matter how suspicious Henry was actin’, that didn’t mean anything about Joey, because Joey wouldn’t lie to them. He wouldn’t lie to _him_.

And Bendy stubbornly held onto that belief, because at this point, it’s all he’s got.

-

Joey flicked the vacuum off, its steady drone fading out into silence as he slowed it to a stop. The room was spotless now, the ink safely stowed away in the holding bag where it could be easily transferred to its final destination. A good thing he had come when he had, otherwise it may have been too late to collect it!

He glanced at the old, crudely drawn ritual circle at the back of the room, amateurish in its design and integrity. Sammy had developed quite a strange fixation on it after his deterioration, but he never could quite get it right.

A sad thing, to learn about his unfortunate end. It didn’t take much deducing to figure out what had happened, this being one of Sammy’s favored rooms, the ritual sign, and the severed ropes in the corner than no one had bothered to clean up. Not to mention the massive ink splat at it’s very heart.

Joey shook his head. Yes, very, very unfortunate. But it was hardly Bendy’s fault. He was simply acting the way he always had. Sammy simply had not adapted to the mindset he needed to bounce back from it, like humans would inevitably need to do once this world expanded. But it would work out. He was sure.

But . . . Henry _had_ given him quite the marvelous idea, a clean way to fix his sorry mistakes. And he was determined to do just that.

“Joey! You out here somewhere?”

The man turned his head to the door, smiling faintly. Ah, it seemed Henry was done with his task, just as he’d expect from him.

“In here, Henry!” he called out, and not much later the door opened and his old friend popped through, papers tucked under one arm as he hurried inside.

It’s such a familiar sight, one he hadn’t seen in some time, and Joey has to admit that it’s refreshing. Now that Henry is a little more like how he envisioned him to be, Joey found it a much more agreeable arrangement, one they’re both benefiting from. He’s quite mad at himself for not thinking of it sooner.

Catching sight of the creator, Henry smiled and held up the pages, “Hey, I got somethin’ for ya!”

Joey’s eyes twinkled, “I can see! I trust it wasn’t too difficult a task?”

“Course not!” Henry replied, walking over to him. He held the pages out, and Joey took them, carefully perusing each one with diligent inspection.

Slowly, a delighted smile spread across Joey’s face, “Yes, these are _perfect!_ Thank you, Henry, I knew I could count on you!”

“You’re welcome,” Henry replied, looking pleased himself. A moment passed, then the animator crossed his arms, “So, you gonna finally tell me what this is for? You can only keep a man in the dark for so long, Joey.”

Joey gave the other man a faux-aghast look, dramatically placing a hand over his heart, “And spoil the surprise? I think not!”

Henry rolled his eyes, but his smile is fond, “Of course. Why would I expect any different?”

“It’s what you sign up for when you work under me,” Joey replied with a shrug, “All in the fine print, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, yeah . . .” slowly, Henry took a gander at the room they were in, and Joey didn’t miss the slight flicker of uneasiness that entered the man’s eyes, “So, uh, what exactly is this room? It’s hard to get you to leave your office at all.”

“Just an old study room I’ve been redecorating,” Joey said easily. He patted the vacuum beside him, “Just wrapped up giving it a good sprucing! Now, what do you say we mosey out of here and find some trouble elsewhere?”

“Yeah, lets . . .” Henry was only half in his reply, still giving shifty side-eyes to the room and looking eager to be away from it.

Joey wasted no time in dragging the vacuum to the door, holding it open and questioning softly, “Is something troubling you, Henry?”

“Uh, no, just . . .” Henry shrugged as he stepped over the threshold, even as he let loose a relieved sigh as he stepped outside, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Maybe. You have been working quite diligently lately. It’s the best and worst thing about you,” Joey said light-heartedly, closing the door behind him.

Henry gave a soft chuckle, “I guess. But someone has to do it.”

“Indeed,” Joey agreed, setting off down the hall. But still, he noticed that Henry still looked a little, well . . . worried by something, “Is there anything else bothering you?”

Henry frowned, and he looked as if he was battling over whether or not to say anything. It was nothing a gentle prod wouldn’t fix, “You can tell me, Henry. After all, what are friends for?”

It does the trick, because Henry lets out a sigh, “It’s really nothing, but . . . your toons are still acting really odd around me. Alice looked upset about something, but she wouldn’t talk to me, and Bendy wasn’t happy with how I reacted to a prank of his . . . I haven’t even _seen_ Boris in who knows how long. I know you said they would be this way in the beginning because of . . . how I left, but . . .”

Hm, that was troubling. He’d done his best to mollify his toons, provide an explanation for why Henry suddenly didn’t remember his previous time here, but he had his suspicions that not all of them believed him quite so readily anymore. It had already been a challenge all its own filling in the holes his actions would leave, and with most of Henry’s memories of his past thirty years now being fabrications of Joey’s own making in and of themselves, he knew there would be some spots he wouldn’t be able to cleanly rub away. Really, he should have exerted more control of his temper, allowed Boris to leave on his own before incapacitating Henry, but . . . ah, what was the point of regrets now? What was done was done.

Still . . . it may be time for another talk.

“I’m sure it is just an adjustment period,” Joey reassured the man, placing a hand on his shoulder, “You’re the first real person they’ve seen besides myself in a while. Warming up may take a little time, but I’m sure they’ll get there.”

“Right . . .”

Henry dropped the issue, and Joey let him. There wasn’t much more to say in that regard, anyway. However, that didn’t mean Joey had to take it as a bad sign.

He knew for a fact now that he had a way to fix his mistakes. As he would do again, soon, taking another small glance at the papers Henry had taken back. The adjustment would take getting used to, for sure, and while some of his toons may be less inclined to believe him, Joey was certain things would work out in the end.

Making the impossible possible was the beauty of his machine, after all.

And Joey was nothing if not committed to achieving his goals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, I wonder where this will go?
> 
> And yes, I do plan on continuing this, because I kinda maybe sorta already developed a story for this. So . . . I guess this is now a spin-off of Squiggly's Toon Henry Au! Following a bad ending! Hurray!
> 
> Also, if anyone was curious, yes, Henry has memories of the past thirty years, however, they are memories *Joey* made. He's good at writing backstory for his characters, after all! Even if they're not necessarily complete . . .
> 
> So . . . I guess I'll see you next time! (Hm, I wonder what I should call this . . .)


	3. Dreaming Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma leaves a scar, and even if its a scar you don't remember getting, it has a way of getting to you when you least expect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, but I feel it makes its point. :)
> 
> Also, from now on, this au is gonna be called the Reincarnate Ink Au! Yaaaay! :D
> 
> Enjoy.

Henry must be tired.

That’s the only explanation he could find for why he felt so . . . _jittery_ (for lack of a better word), after giving Joey his drawings. He didn’t know why, but standing inside that room had made him feel uneasy, the kind of uneasy that made a person’s skin crawl. Literally, in his case, now that he was a toon. He’d been quite glad to be away from it, but the feeling had persisted even as he went back to his desk, until it was strong enough to distract him from his work. It was then that Henry decided that maybe he would benefit from a small break. He’d been working nearly non-stop since he’d woken up, after all.

It might be a little pointless, considering toons didn’t really need things like sleep or food, but Henry was the type who liked to run on a schedule, and while he may be a toon himself now, it felt . . . wrong, to just drop the things he’d lived by before. And besides, routine might set his mind straight, help him sort out whatever was going on with him.

So here he was, in the room he’d woken up in after his unfortunate run-in with Bendy’s bucket prank. Hm, it still felt like a waking dream, at times; the studio, the toons, Joey’s ambition. . .

Henry sighed, running a hand through his hair as he thought about Joey’s plan. Not for the first time, there’s a tiny, tiny flicker of doubt inside; how could his old boss possibly achieve what he set out to do? For all he’d accomplished, spreading it further just seemed . . . impossible.

And maybe . . . a little dangerous.

The thought seemed to stray from nowhere, and Henry shook his head, rapping his knuckles against his temple in annoyance. Bah, there he went again. That old paranoia.

God, he really did need to sleep.

With a quick glance to ensure he hadn’t forgotten to lock the door (he really didn’t feel like waking up to one of Bendy’s traps, especially given how . . . poorly the last one went), Henry turned and dropped onto the bed, a satisfied sigh escaping as he sank into the pleasantly soft mattress.

Even as he rested his head against the pillow, his thoughts drifedt into more troubled territory. Namely, territory involving the toons. He knew that it wouldn’t be overnight that opinions of him would change, he’s not naïve, but . . . well, it’s hard when the creations you once put your heart and soul into came alive and wanted nothing to do with you. There wasn’t any helping it, though. Whether he had wished it or not, he _had_ left the studio, and it would be stupid to think the toons left behind would forget that. Henry guessed the only thing to do was to keep trying to prove he wasn’t their enemy, even if it felt like he was getting nowhere. Joey certainly seemed positive that it would work out, but then, Joey’s always been more of an optimist.

Hn, maybe he’d do well to try and take a page of his old friend’s book. It certainly seemed to have gotten Joey somewhere with this whole machine business.

Maybe he was even more tired than he’d originally believed, because it’s only a matter of minutes when he felt his eyes start to droop. Or it was part of the gag of falling asleep, it was hard to tell between toon world logic and real world logic sometimes. But either way, drowsiness is very, very quick to overcome him, until Henry’s eyes finally slide closed.

The next thing Henry knew, he was walking. It takes a minute to reorient himself, but when he finally comes too, he realized he had no idea where he was even walking to. Or . . . where he even was.

It _looked_ like the studio, but a rough sketch of it, harsh white lines against a pitch-black canvas that left most of indistinct and hard on the eyes. A quick glance at his hands showed that he was much the same, although it doesn’t disturb him like perhaps it should. He can feel hard ground beneath his feet, and the sound of creaking floorboards follow in his footsteps every time he moved.

That same uneasiness from before has followed him, too, chills running up and down his spine as if fingertips are trailing against his back. It’s disconcerting, and more than once, Henry found himself casting his eyes behind him, convinced he’s being followed but never finding another soul besides himself.

Another step forward in the maze that didn’t seem to end, when suddenly, just below his feet, Henry thought he felt the faintest, faintest pulse. He stopped, looked down, waited.

It came again, just as soft, just as quiet, barely there at all. But it _is_ there. And the feel of it, the way it throbbed against the soles of his shoes like a heartbeat . . . he can’t quite explain the dread that seeped into his being with every pulse it gave, the way it made his breath come just a little shorter than it should.

He forced his eyes up again. No, don’t focus on it. Ahead, keep moving ahead.

So he does, one foot after the other, even as the sound followed him, growing louder it seemed with each step.

And then he comes across a door.

It looks like every other, and there’s a name plaque embedded to the frame, but the words are all indecipherable chicken scratch. Still, it’s the first door he’d come across, the first possibility that maybe he could find someone, _something_ , familiar. Reaching out, he grabbed the knob and twisted, pulling the door open with a quick jerk. A sudden, strong draft burst from the opening as he does so, and the air feels hot and sticky against his skin, smothering and gross. It faded just as fast, and Henry wrinkled his nose at the strong, pervasive smell of ink and . . . something else. Something . . . sharper. Stronger. Acidic.

Stomach churning, Henry stepped over the threshold . . . only to find a barren room.

No furniture, no desks, no rugs, no paintings, no decorations, nothing. Cautiously, Henry stepped a little further into the room, looking for _anything_ , anything at all, when his foot suddenly landed in something cold and wet.

He jumped back, startled at the change in consistency, looking down to see what it was he had stepped in. Below him, he found white lines drawn in the shape of floorboards, but it was easy to spot the massive . . . hole, near the center of the room, blotting out the white almost completely.

It looks innocuous enough. He’s seen stains in the studio before. But something about it . . . unsettled him. Deeply. So, keeping his eyes glued to the spot, Henry warily began to back away, out the open door . . .

He’s about an inch away from the threshold when said door suddenly slammed shut with a loud _bang_.

Henry spun around, alarm bells ringing urgently as he searched for the cause, but finding nothing, nothing at all. A sense of endangerment had fallen over him, heavy and all encompassing, and Henry knew he had to get out of there. He had to get out of there _now_.

He was just about to leap for the door, as well, break it down and flee back from where he’d come, when the sound of a lock being disengaged echoed stridently over the beating of the floorboards beneath.

Then suddenly, there was no floor at all.

Henry’s startled shout as he was sent free-falling was cut short when he landed on something solid again, something stretchable and plastic in texture, almost like a rubber blanket. He can just make out it’s white outline, as well as the hole above his head, and at the sight of it, pure panic suddenly floods every instinct he has. With a mad scramble, he reached for the opening, not knowing what the explanation was, just knowing that he needed to get there, he needed to _get out-!_

His fingertips brushed the top, just barely, almost there, it’s _right there_ , when something thick and black suddenly poured over the lip, crashing into him with the force of a sledgehammer. He’s blown back to the bottom, and he scrambled to rise, head bursting through the surface of the miasma, gasping and choking.

The cloying smell of alcohol rushed over everything, drowning it all beneath its scent, and it burns his nose, his eyes, his throat, and it won’t stop, it just spreads, over his arms, his chest his legs hisfaceit’severywhereanditsburningit’s _burning **he’sburning!**_

With a wild swing _hurt_ he grabbed for the top, terrified, desperate _ithurt_ but his fingers just slid over the edge, the white of them shrinking _please_ twisting, melting away, and he _stop_ can’t reach, he can’t _helpme!_ reach, he’s trapped _somebody!_ he’s trapped, he _please!_ can’t get out!

Henry thinks he might have screamed, but all he heard was a weak, choking gurgle that bubbled from a throat that’s no longer quite there, and just before sight faded, he thought he could see a shadow standing above him, watching, waiting, but never extending a hand to save him even as he _d r o w n e d_.

There’s a jolt, followed by a flash that felt like pain, and Henry is suddenly flinging himself forward, chest heaving and not knowing where he is. He scrambled to the side, still overcome by that same urge to run, only for his hand to miss the edge and send himself crashing to the floor instead.

There’s a blissful moment where all Henry can comprehend are the stars hovering in front of his eyes, but they clear off fast as he clambered back to his feet, spinning in circles to take stock of where he was.

But it’s just the room he’d been in when he’d gone to sleep, solid and real and very much filled out, unlike the place in his dream.

Just a dream . . .

With a sigh that sounds even more exhausted than before he’d slept, Henry sank back against the bed, rubbing a hand against his head. That jittery feeling was back, only this time it was worse, and a deep, almost aching feeling of nausea was pulsing just below his sternum. He rubbed at the point half-heartedly, but it did nothing to ease the ache below his ribs, and it feels like his heart is drumming a mile a minute. Had this particular toon-world been in color, he could imagine he’d be turning green by now.

Henry isn’t a stranger to bad dreams. True, it . . . had been a while, _a long while_ , since his last. He can’t even remember what it had been about really. But this was . . . this was a first, he was sure. A very disturbing and unsettling first. But what could have caused it? Nightmares usually had a root in some event in his life, they were never so . . . nonsensical.

Right?

Leaning back, he ran his hands over his face in a vain effort to wipe the dredges away, as if it would banish the lasting terror that continued to haunt him in his waking hours. But they remained, and with a deep sigh, he knew it was probably going to linger like a bad aftertaste for some time.

He certainly didn’t fancy going back to sleep now, that was for sure.

So instead, Henry got up and walked to the door. There’d be something to distract him, he was sure. A book, maybe some sketching, a radio . . . just something to take his mind off of his thoughts and help him ignore the way it felt like his skin was crawling.

Henry was in the waking world now, and the waking world was safe. No matter how . . . viscerally real a nightmare might feel, it was just that. A nightmare.

He tried to ignore how often he had to tell himself that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, I wonder what Henry was dreaming about. :P
> 
> More to come!~

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. Got a little dark, it did.
> 
> So yeah, this is what I think Joey might try to do in this au. It made sense to me, since he could already bring toons to life, and I don't think he outright wants to kill Henry. I mean, he kind of did, yeah, but Joey then rebuilt him with his machine using Henry's ink as a base. So technically, Henry's a pure toon now, too. Not that Joey ever plans on him finding out.
> 
> What'll happen in the future of this? How'll the toons react? What's Boris gonna do? Who knows! I only slightly thought that far ahead!


End file.
